I Love You
by Jessica-Doom
Summary: How could he not listen when passion laced every breath Harry Potter ever spoke? How could he not want to train his eyes on those lips, memorizing every single word that passed through them? Even when the words were nothing but drunken babble, they were still laced with everything Amortentia smelled like.


**A/N: This ficlet was written for a prompt in the Drarry: fanfiction and fanart Facebook group - "Say I love you without using those three words".  
(Sorry for the lapse in posting, I've been a bit stuck since finding out a week shy of Christmas that I had yet another ectopic pregnancy. This is the first thing I've been able to even put any passion into since. Please let me know what you thought of it!)**

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Draco had trust issues. He was prone to jealousy and could be, admittedly, a bit psychotic. He was definitely also a clueless git. He had issues believing anyone could love him for the person he was. He had issues. That was the plain and simple of it. And those issues caused likely irreparable problems.

"Do you ever even _listen_ to me?"

It wasn't the shouting or raised voice that caused Draco to flinch. It wasn't the fact that his eardrums were ringing or that spit flecked his face. It was the words. It was the pure hate hiding behind them. It was the way they made him feel deep in that crevice where the jealousy and the issues and the problems lived. He flinched because he felt those words hit him right at the center of everything. And he felt that center feasting on the one good thing he had left in his life – tainting it until it was something he no longer recognized.

It wasn't until he registered the slamming of the front door that Draco fully realized he'd lost the fight. And, potentially, more. With that door closed so resolutely between them, he'd lost the chance to plead his case. To defend himself and swear up and down that he _did_ listen. Of course he listened.

How could he not listen when passion laced every breath Harry Potter ever spoke? How could he not want to train his eyes on those lips, memorizing every syllable that passed through them? Even when the words were nothing but drunken babble, they were still laced with everything Amortentia smelled like.

There really was no telling if Harry was ever going to come back. He had no real reason to.

One of his jumpers was still in Draco's wardrobe, but that was something he could probably live without. Even if Draco couldn't because it reminded him of the night they both slipped on ice while coming home from the market. It reminded him of the deep red blush on Harry's face as they watched cans of soup roll out into traffic. It reminded him of the dopey smile on that man's face as he tried to gather the rest of the food, shoving it in the pockets of the jumper. It reminded him of that deep-bellied laugh Draco earned when he tried to 'help' by loading up the hood with now-bruised apples.

Harry had a toothbrush by the bathroom sink, as well. It was green – an intentional choice made by Draco. The green of the man's eyes was ingrained behind his own closed lids like a permanent background to his everyday thoughts. The bristles of the brush were fanning out, flattening from vigilant use. At first Draco had found it insulting that Harry would always go for the toothbrush after they'd been intimate. It felt like he was trying to scrub clean some sort of dirty feeling Draco left within him. But the longer time stretched on and the more he saw the ritual, the more comfort it instilled within him personally. He would lie back in his bed, fresh with their mingled musk, watching it unfold through the open door while his mouth watered for the minty kiss that would soon follow when Harry climbed back in beside him. Nuzzling into him like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

The only other notable thing Harry left in the small, cramped flat was the ghost of himself. Every crack and corner of Draco's home was filled with the memory of the man he had come to love more than anything he could remember even dreaming for his life. Memories of where he'd sat, where they'd shagged, where they'd sunk to the floor in the kitchen and just…talked about absolutely nothing and everything all at once. Draco couldn't even grab a mug from the cupboard without some wanton thought pushing its way into his mind.

Draco didn't know if Harry was ever coming back. He didn't know if he was ever going to get a second chance. And he would rightly deserve it if he didn't. He had always been and would likely always be at least a bit of a prick. It was coded into his genetics. But he was trying. He was trying so. Damn. Hard. He'd never tried harder at anything he'd ever done than to be the kind of person Harry Potter could be proud of.

"He's probably not coming back," Draco muttered. The universe had been hanging in a precarious balance since the two of them even thought about dating. Just tipped enough to allow a glimpse into a reality that should never exist. Just enough for a taste. Just enough for Draco to get his fill of 'what if's and 'maybe's. Just enough for him to taste it and crave more.

All before everything tilted back to normal and everything he'd grown comfortable in was ripped from his grasp.

"For Salazar's sake, Malfoy, stop being so dramatic," he countered with and pushed up from his collapsed state on the sofa. "If he comes back then fine. Fine. If he doesn't…. You'll deal with it. But if he comes back…." If Harry Potter decided Draco Malfoy was miraculously still worth his time, Draco wanted to show him _everything_. Everything. And he wanted it to be perfect. So to fill that growing, consuming void inside, Draco set himself to work.

It was nearing on midnight when Draco finally heard the knock on his door. The weight of an entire bottle of merlot made him reluctant to answer at all. But his hard work nagged at him and he honestly didn't know if he would get another chance if he screwed this one up. Swaying just a bit, he pulled the door open and tried to very casually lean in the doorway. The wine in his bloodstream, however, skewed his execution. Instead of leaning, he practically fell against the frame. Massaging his shoulder with a mild blush, he found it rather difficult to meet Harry's waiting eyes.

"You're drunk."

With mild confidence and a bitten back smirk, Draco pulled in the familiar stench of Canadian whisky. "As are you…." With just the inkling of an upturned lip, Draco chanced a glance upward. Harry wasn't smiling and a second later neither was he. "Why'd you come back?"

Harry shrugged, his body language matching his fixed frown. "We didn't finish our fight."

"You finished," Draco said slowly, stepping back to allow the other entrance into his flat. "Will you allow me the chance to have my say?" Neither of them would have been humbled enough to allow this sober. That was likely a red flag they were both pointedly ignoring. But since they were both rather gone, Harry stepped in with a proud nod and Draco slowly closed the door behind him. His nerves were dancing, even though he had been working towards this moment for hours. "It took several warming charms, but I think everything is still ready," he muttered, trying to funnel Harry toward the dining table.

"I'm…I'm not really hungry?" Harry replied, looking absolutely confused even as he settled into a chair. On the table were no less than ten plates of food all covered in magical bubbles. "Your side of our fights doesn't usually come with a menu."

Sitting as far across the table from Harry as possible, Draco reached into the center and poked the bubble covering one of the dishes. It dissipated with a flashy billow of smoke, filling the room with the butteriness of hot water crust pastry. "I'm not fighting. Not really. The only fighting I plan to do is for you, I suppose…." Again, if he had been sober, such corny words would never have come out of his mouth. "Pie and mash from Broadway Market."

For a moment, Harry merely blinked. His mouth flapped open and closed, but he didn't take his eyes from the platter. "Why?" was all he could say and even that barely squeaked out through obvious emotion.

Draco's merlot-slicked lips finally quirked into a comfortable smile. "Because I listen, Potter. When you were young, your aunt and uncle couldn't get anyone to watch you for one of their long weekend trips to London, so they had to take you along. For lunch one of those days, you all went to Broadway Market and as a joke, your cousin made you eat pie and mash without telling you what it was. You ended up being allergic to eel. It was an eventful trip, to say the least."

"So you listened to one of my sad childhood stories. Am I supposed to give you some sort of prize for that?"

With how badly he'd messed up, Draco wasn't really expecting it to be that easy. But the crass way in which Harry spoke still stung. Sighing softly, he reached out and popped another bubble. "Treacle tart."

"Everybody knows it's my favorite dessert."

"But does everybody know you ate two entire tarts on your twentieth birthday? Or that you vomited it all up after getting sloshed on shit vodka?" Harry stayed silent, probably running through his mind whether that was public knowledge or not. Taking advantage of the silence, Draco continued on as he continued to pop more bubbles. "I know you don't like peanut butter because it gives you gas. And I know you think the white parts of candy canes taste better for some reason. I know you lost your virginity to the little Weasette shortly after she graduated and afterward you cried in the bathroom with an entire pack of Walker's because that was supposed to be the one easy thing in your life and even that wasn't right. I know your favorite foods and your favorite brand of toilet tissue. And I know you hate the Prophet with your life even though you still read it every morning – but only because I pay for a subscription anyway.

"I knew about your promotion. And I knew about the ceremony. I know you wanted me to be there. I also know that absolutely everyone who is important at the Ministry was also going to be there. And that all of those people do not like me or the fact that we're dating. I know all of this because I _listen_ to you. And I know…that if I had gone to that ceremony, everything would have become about _me_ …when it should have been about _you_. So that's why I didn't go. Not because I don't listen to you, Harry, but because I was trying to be…nice. Or considerate.

"I listen to you. It's important to me that you know that."

Harry's face remained stoic. He didn't flinch past the initial confusion and Draco was honestly certain he might not care. That his being here might just be a matter of drunken circumstance. Their whole relationship started off as such. Harry never would have given Draco a chance in the first place if it hadn't been for the pliant effects of alcohol. It only seemed fitting that alcohol should be there for the end of them, too.

The silence stretched on too long. Long enough that Draco just didn't think he could stand it any longer. And that was humiliating. Deciding to call it – his grand gesture being nothing more than a fruitless effort – he stood, chair legs screeching on the wood floor and echoing the turmoil he wanted to scream out. He couldn't find the words any longer. All he could muster was the will to walk past Harry, saying goodbye to the best thing in his life with a casual swipe of his fingers through the man's ever-messy hair.

"I love you, too, Draco."

That happy smile pushed itself back onto Draco's face before he could even think about stopping it. And all he wanted for the rest of his life was to listen to this man say those words over and over again.


End file.
